Long Trolls Poems
Long Trolls Poems. Below are the most popular long Trolls by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trolls poems by poem length and keyword.
O! FLUFF! FIZZ! ICE-TRUFFLES and BANDALEES!
Can't see the forest, for the snow on trees!
Where every gossamer veil of snow delights
And every string of bulbs mimics Heav'n's Lights!
O! TRUE! the tales of gnomes and Ice-Elves are!
(I fear some fool will catch one in a jar
and so, I've held my Peace on this -- so far)
But NOW, I must speak out, you see... on par
With Ancient Wisdom are the Fairy Stories,
Chuck full of Angels, dwarves... filled with the Glories
Of... Champions, Magicians of Renown...
Of tiny folk, who live in Tinytown…
Of Reprimands for those who trouble Nature
(Or use JUST Scientific Nomenclature).
REBUKE! O, WISE! The Unbelievers, ALL!
Who LAUGH at gnolls and trolls, both great, and small!
For He that trusts not, sews with poison thread,
That knots Hope; leaves Imagination dead.
Date Written: December 28, 2018
For Contest: BUNNY LUMP
Sponsored by: Caren Krutsinger
Frankenstein was hosting a tea party,
Of which I was happy to attend.
With goblins, ghosts and golems,
And other ghoulish friends.
The party started just at midnight,
But everyone showed up late...
Dragons brought some stolen treasure,
And Dracula brought the dates.
Witches prepared a magical stew,
And mummies brought the napkins.
Giants barreled in the grog,
And then you'll never guess what happened...
Demons danced with the fairies,
And hydras did party tricks.
Erinyes played cards with aliens,
And trolls drank the punch getting sick!
Then came in the man of the hour,
Frankenstein's own monster.
He happily did the moonwalk,
While werewolves performed a concert.
And then there was me, a human,
With nothing special to be...
Outside of having one simple question,
Where was the tea?
4-September-2021
I've roamed the halls of Poetry Soup for nearly nine years
and had lots of ups and downs, cried happy and sad tears
Some poets are super duper people that I call my 'friends'
There are some snoopers who have need to make amends
Soupers are a varied lot from different backgrounds in life
But never should there be reason for enmity, vitriol or strife
I've laughed at humorous scribblings of many bawdy limericks
Shook my head at rude comments that have caused conflicts
Those few are in the ranks of poets I call 'the party poopers'
And there are some who enjoy interfering ~ 'the bloopers'
They spread rumors that cause chaos in the soup kitchen
The site would be much better if they would stop b****in'
I cannot claim my innocence for I've battled a time or thrice
When bullies and trolls have said things that weren't very nice
I've been called a 'mean girl' but it's a name I take in stride
Bet money on it being said again and I'll say, "Let it Ride!"
I've written for other poetry sites, but I remain in the Soup
and if you question why I've returned, well, here's the scoop...
There are fantastic men and women here that I have met
who are sincerely kindhearted. I owe them gratitude as a debt
I prefer to ignore those who cast aspersions with a snicker
But like most kinfolk, there will be times when we bicker
As a community of artists, we are writers of poetic verse
with a common interest shared across the entire universe
We should strive to be united with the same goal in mind
'Respect each other as Poetry Soupers and remain aligned'
Positive comments are encouraging. Ladle them and you'll see
That supporting Super Soupers will keep the site hassle free
Is God a Woman?
Love.
Nothing is fair
in love and war.
Mother
carries the load
ripped open ripe torn
gives birth.
Who’s the better
stronger one
in this war?
Puts her child first.
Swallows all burning
stones thrown
ignores trolls, fights all...
Child first.
First born.
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
gvlm.
llb.
“God is Love God is War”
https://youtu.be/mhrSUE__oc8
“Mother is the name for God
in the lips and hearts of little children.”
William Makepeace Thackeray
“A Mother’s love for her child
is like nothing else in the world.
It knows no law, no pity, it dares all things
and crushes down remorselessly
all that stands in its path.”
Agatha Christie
"Now what to do?
I know your crew,
and each one got stripes
But I'm young see,
and one thing you not --
Hungry...
It's either or,
in the Game
from the door
Let's see
who'll be the first
to find the floor..."
"I sent my Soul through the Invisible,
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
And by and by my Soul return'd to me,
And answer'd "I Myself am Heav'n and Hell:"
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
Two impish girls by a ridge of the sea
frolicked with wavelets lapping merrily
as pink buckets swayed, in each little hand
where clusters of moistened grains polished the sand
bedecking castles on bright August skies;
mermaids we dressed in ferns waiting to dry.
Patty and I guarded the moats from the bad trolls
with candles on gates as swooshing tides cajoled;
a vignette we held in deep friendship’s mind
when crests besieged our kingdom, how unkind
as we fought the tides with shovels dug around,
our legs standing firm to parry the roaring mound.
But on our twelfth year, she caught a fever;
Patty grew hazy, our beach empty right where
all sandcastles dissolved from red to gray
and no more turrets to chisel away .
Now, summers without pails are a memory
of two impish girls, on ridge of the sea.
………………………..
Memories of The Sea: Isaiah Zerbst’s Contest
5/14/2015
Joie de vivre courtesy Melitte A Goldsby -
NMLS ID#639704
Citizens Bank manager
in Trooper, Pennsylvania
lit up space like a live wire,
and I braced myself
against shaking our hands
(upon first greeting me
after walking thru the doors)
lest a shock pass thru me
analogous to a lightning bolt
striking yours truly out of the blue
after seeing her
standing righteous and proud
(as she rightfully deserved
acquired her station in life
courtesy indomitable perseverance,
I presume most likely never did tire
what with an outsize personality
that would charm
the skin off a snake
and the smarts to match),
thus prompting me
to dash off a feeble attempt
regarding this wordsmith
to resolve his
checking account quagmire
after being suckered
into one after
another centsless imbroglio
falling prey into poor man's
monied pipe bombed dream
gullible and naive to compromise
relative safekeeping his deposits
yet somehow found myself
at the mercy of short,
nasty and brutish
trolls rubbing their
weather beaten hands in glee
when ensnaring a once
happy go lucky boy
essentially being affected courtesy
an anonymous byte size notifier
that meekness and submissiveness
signaled to bullies think Charlie Brown
the renown targeted
victim as a vulnerable kite-flier
whose kite went no higher
than the kite eating tree,
whose foiled attempt
at a Lucy free empire
like a metaphor
for the writer of these words
stumbling into pitfalls
most of his own making a buyer
into the implication of the maxim
"if something is too good
to be true, it probably is"
disregarding a warning to be skeptical
of offers or situations
that seem unrealistically
positive or beneficial
taking the bait
from snake oil salesman
pitching me head over heels
into a grave situation
of my own making
exhausting every last ounce of energy
only to find myself
deeper in a black hole
where red is the new black,
especially pertaining to money matters,
and I pay thru
emotional/psychological nose
exacerbating an already
anxiety prone baby boomer
soon after the beneficence
as high a caliber individual,
but interestingly enough
none can exceed
the esprit de corps of Melitte A Goldsby
principally with knack
to rectify his out of balance accounts.
Aah Harry ! How can we not ode a domestic cat
cousin of the great Lyrans of Cosmic Fate : leo, jaguar, panther, lynx, tiger, cheetah to name but a few — you carry their genetic makeup across dews, giving these chosen their gross due ~
geometric accurate your agility to leap onto roof
imitating their ricochets into branches rustle, to view jungle, forest or curious humans tour ogling
as you sound your mellow meows to starlings
harking —- even to crows soaring, cat darling !
across time’s hours your intuition assess a neighbour’s aches and pains, where you visit
to dish cat medicine by purring for gain, so sane
is your senses, paws not profane, making us guffaw our admiration raw —-
salute we your leadership as you hold whisker
seminars at night discussing needless cat fights check mates who are late, ruin ardent rodent runs through drains insane, shaking your
head like a lion did his m a n e !
comical beloved Harry ! how you wrinkle your nose at flavoured sardines we feed you as a treat
no way will you eat what we think of as sweet
sit you meditative at garden gate, patient for a
purr-fect date ~ she does not arrive, contrived another mate ——
care you not since sovereignty is your mark, hark
independence gains your favour to savour every
moment free — no leash for your gallant strolls
among trolls, your joy watching crawling ants
kiss-kiss as they scurry in a hurry collecting
winter stores galore for quiet insect snores
Aah Harry ! let this be one ode to you, another shall be sung, maybe scrolled, to be sold, on a
“I love my cat’s hat” mug, so snug —
sadly, you do not want my bug hug
today, you say…
as you rush into garage hay !
—————————-
Third Placement: Ode to Cat
August 26
Donald Trump, ever a worthy upstart,
Proclaims his hairstyle 'a work of art'.
While losing battles on the Strait of Hormuz,
His whole attention shifts to Hairmuz.
He, deeply concerned for his thinning thatch,
Tries hard to hide his patchy patch—
That soon turns to national discourse and main event,
Those locks and curls—what a mane event!
Whether or not his new style’s flattering,
It might lift his standing, currently tattering.
Or that, at least, is what he thinks—
A motor mouth who never blinks.
Expert in making statements hair-raising,
And speculations so hair-splitting,
His folks have forgotten the economy,
His wonky ways, and foreign policy.
Expert in making statements hair-raising
And speculations hair-splitting,
His folks have forgotten economy,
Warts on his ways, or foreign policy.
What’s the message that people might follow?
Hair today, but gone tomorrow!
But this hairy style of ‘a man so smart’,
He thinks, will always stand apart.
And when the social media deeper digs,
Awash with AI-made, amusing wigs,
The President becomes the butt of trolls,
Right on the eve of November polls.
And his Make America Great Again
Turns to Make Big Hair Great Again.
The poor old puppeteer of punch lines
Faces a boomerang of landmines.
His coiffure neither bare nor grand,
But rather, the symbol of a brand,
Held together by sheer willpower,
Or perhaps industrial-grade lacquer.
Presidents are pulled by opinion firms,
But this one of two-broken-terms
Has always been a joke-ready,
No more a nation equipped with AI.
_______________________________
Happenings | 12.08.2026 | America, art, humour, political, satire, Quatrains
Note: The lines of each quatrain are a pair of rhyming couplets and follow a relaxed rhythm. The part II comes with some Clerihews on the same theme.
When did things change?
When did we stop imagining?
When we were young we believed in dragons, witches, gnomes and trolls
Nights were spent under a blanket
We read of princesses and heroes
In our mind we were there
We helped free the woman in danger
We slew the dragons
But we knew they would come back the next night
Always wanting another fight
Witches cast their spells on us
Somehow we knew that we changed
No one ever noticed, but we knew
That spell written in the book was meant for us
But in the morning we were the same.
We walked through the woods
Every bridge had creaks and groans
We knew that a troll was beneath waiting to jump
But we always made it to the other side
Safe for now, or at least until we walked home.
When did we lose that life?
When did we stop imagining?
Maybe it was part of growing up?
We don't want to think that Sleeping Beauty and Snow White may be real
Maybe, just maybe, we are their fairy tale.
The Trolls of Ayeres
Glare the Stare that speaks in volume
described by some as a lyrical grunt
In concerns for perfection
it s steeped in possibility
familiar each part
an ensemble of words
begins to unfold each in description
of a storied beginning. He Trolls
the fields gathering the gourds
he dries and store them to
speak this as chores
he dolls up his cave to
impress his Lady
A songstress who sings with
Song Thrushes
then to the envy of the Common Nightingale's
she sing in refrain in reference to the
beautiful gourds she begins to sing
to catch the ear of the listeners
her octaves began to change
As The Nightingales began to spread there wings
The Husband Troll signal's his gal
A thrust in movement brings this passage
to an end
They sing beneath Ayres to entertain the
Birds in the sky
The chirps of many birds a sequential erosion
the stones are echoing walls
where the Trolls chore and sing